


An Unexpected Proposal

by prairiecrow



Series: One Degree of Separation [11]
Category: A.I. Artificial Intelligence (2001)
Genre: Eavesdropping, Imprinting, M/M, Overheard Conversations, Police, Prostitution, Surveillance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:12:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiecrow/pseuds/prairiecrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Officer John Husselbeck has been in Rouge City Vice long enough to know that in this city of lust, love is in distinctly short supply — but what he sees during a stakeout of the waterfront opens his eyes in a completely new way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unexpected Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place about two weeks after the end of "It's a Cold and It's a Broken Hallelujah".

_Rouge City, Pennsylvania, USA, November 2_ _nd_ _2138, 12:02 a.m._  

Officer John Husselbeck was currently locked inside a small unmarked police van parked on the Scarlet Plaza in Rouge City's red light district, staring at a computer monitor with an audio feed stuck in his left ear — and he was bored smack out of his ever-loving mind, a state of affairs that showed absolutely no sign of changing in the near future.  

This was an unusual condition for a vice cop in Rouge, which wasn't called "the Sodom of the East" and "the Metropolis of Mecha Sin" for nothing. The municipality had very few prohibitive rules in comparison to most other cities in North America, but what laws it did have enshrined in its writ of incorporation were strictly enforced: murder, physical assault, rape, blackmail and money laundering were all forbidden, and all sex workers of any physical constitution whatsoever had to be strictly licensed. You'd think that a shorter list of things to avoid would lead to less crime, but Rouge was still the site of enough death and mayhem to keep its police force hopping every night of the year, and double-time on major holidays. 

Also banned were a certain small range of drugs, including the mind-bending (and occasionally mind-breaking) synthomethaphenidine variant known on the streets as Shatter. It was Shatter that had pulled Husselbeck off his usual street beat and into this cramped space crammed with computer equipment, guns, body armour, and another officer, Sargent Jill Morales, who was almost pressed up against Husselbeck's back as she sat in front of her own monitoring station, no doubt equally unimpressed with the duty she'd pulled. He would have paid good money to be just about anywhere else, not only because it was hot and stuffy in here but because he was stuck surveilling what had so far proven to be singularly boring thirty-foot stretch of the Delaware River waterfront walkway just off the Scarlet Plaza, on the city's east central perimeter.  

The top brass had received a supposedly solid tip that dealers peddling Shatter were meeting their clients there and had, in their infinite wisdom, pulled some of the detectives-in-training from much more interesting duties to put in some sit-time staring at computer screens and listening to the lewd and shallow babble of sexual propositions that passed for intellectual conversation in Rouge City — with no offer of additional pay, fuck you very much. All in all, a totally wasted evening spent staring at something far more annoying than mere nothing. 

Husselbeck glanced at the onscreen chronometer, winced when he saw that he'd only been here for three and a half hours out of a ten-hour shift, and stretched his back and shoulders as best he could without bumping into Morales. Three and a half freaking hours of watching lecherous couples stroll along the walkway overlooking the river, sometimes pausing long enough to sit on one of the two elegant wooden benches in his line of sight, the better to grope each other and suck each other's faces off: the Diamond Promenade was supposed to be a higher class area than other stretches of the waterfront, but Husselbeck had yet to see proof of that claim. He was no prude — if he was, he wouldn't have lasted two minutes in Rouge City Vice — but… well, what was that old saying about working in a sausage factory and never wanting to eat sausages? There was only so much out-in-the-open balls-to-the-wall free love one could witness before the taste for it started to pall, and Husselbeck had been working his way up the ranks here for almost three long years now. 

On nights like this he was thoroughly sick of the flesh circus and everyone — and everything — connected with it, from the Consortium and the Agency down to the orga and mecha hookers who plied their dirty trade on every corner. For two coppers and a half-decent benefits package he'd have left it all behind in a heartbeat, but with the new RLX-421 police units from Cybertronics being released in a few months, entry level law enforcement positions were becoming scarcer than hen's teeth. And thus here Husselbeck sat, tight-lipped but uncomplaining, to watch a pathetic stream of performers cavort across his screens and to listen to their hackneyed speeches over and over again. 

 _They call this "love"_ , he had mused at 20:38, watching a guy plaster himself against a woman's side while they walked close to the railing, leering as he wormed his hand up under her clinging top to fondle her left breast — and no one in the steady stream of pedestrians gave them a second glance. _Assholes wouldn't know what real love was it if jumped up and punched them in the family jewels._ And then he'd given himself a mental slap upside the head for turning cynical… until he'd watched another half-hour or so of footage and come slowly back to the conclusion that no, really, "Sin City" was a place that was fundamentally soulless and heartless. This in spite of the fact that virtually no mecha were appearing on his screen: although there was no signage prohibiting robots on the Promenade, it was nonetheless one of the few places in Rouge that the mecha sex workers were ordered to steer clear of by the Agency. Some people, after all, found robots offensive, and Rouge tried to cater to everyone who passed through its wide-open gates in search of a red-hot good time. 

But thank God for small mercies: even in that sea of lechery there were a few notable exceptions to the general depressing rule. At 23:08 a pair of casually dressed girls had entered his line of sight, hand in hand, unhurried, gazing at each other with shy melting smiles and bright eyes that bespoke more than a moment's itch between the sheets. They didn't pause or speak, but they moved in their own circle of happiness and Husselbeck's heart warmed at the sight of them: here, then, was the golden prize that everyone else around them was chasing without grasping anything more than clanging brass. When they passed out of the camera's view he caught himself sighing aloud, and wishing that they'd chosen to linger for even a little while. 

"Hey, Husselbeck?" He'd turned to find Morales looking back at him with amusement in her quirked eyebrows. "You okay?" 

"Yeah," he'd responded at once, "just wishing those dealers would hurry up and show." 

She'd grinned mirthlessly. "You and me both," she'd quipped, and turned back to her own little ten-yard stretch of Hell. 

By 23:50 the pedestrian stream had thinned considerably, dwindling to an occasional ambling couple entwined with each other to the exclusion of all else, or a rare lone hustler clocking along in search of an easy mark. Husselbeck sat up straighter and pulled himself another can of Insta-Caff: if something was going to go down, this lull might well be the time, and if it didn't he was going to need all the stimulants he could get just to keep his eyes open. 

And something _did_ go down, something that opened his eyes very wide indeed, although it wasn't at all what he'd expected and in fact turned out to be something whose interpretation he would debate in the privacy of his own mind for years to come.  

At 00:02 a new couple entered his line of sight from the south: a balding older Caucasian male, about six foot two and broadly built, strolling along with his right arm around the back of a black-haired younger Caucasian male, about five foot eleven and slender, whose left arm was wound tightly around his taller companion's waist. They were were both neatly attired in well-tailored suits and coats, but only the older male was wearing black leather gloves and a maroon scarf over a charcoal grey wool overcoat heavy enough to really protect against the night's chill, and after a couple of seconds Husselbeck realized why: he was orga and the willowy figure at his side was mecha, an LX9-277E-HT to be precise.  

Husselbeck had seen enough of that particular model in his time — they'd been particularly popular at certain clubs when he'd started in Rouge, although the public taste for them had waned in recent years — but something about this unit told him that it wasn't a street prostitute that had just picked up a john. For one thing, it wasn't dressed to attract customers; for another, a streetwalker would have been hastening its client off the public thoroughfare to conclude its business, and these two gave every impression of being in no particular hurry. They were looking out over the water and talking to each other in low voices that the mikes really picked up just as the older male inclined his head towards the machine, and murmured: 

"So… is it as you remembered it?" 

The robot turned its unblinking eyes upward to meet his gaze, and smiled slightly. There was something about the expression that struck Husselbeck as… not dangerous — it was, in fact, an oddly sweet smile — but certainly as strange, unexpected. Something about its body language was subtly 'off' too. "Yes, and no. There don't seem to be as many women as there were when I called this city home — or when I walked its streets with David at my side." 

"Hm." The man looked down at it fondly, then guided them both toward one of the empty benches. "That's probably because your target acquisition protocols were taken offline along with your sexual pursuit subroutines." 

"So the women are as numerous…?" 

"… but you're not perceiving them the same way." He stepped away from the mecha to seat himself, and it joined him gracefully with long legs crossed at the knee, letting itself be drawn close again by his right arm around its shoulders, laying its left hand lightly on his wool-clad thigh. "Does that bother you?" 

"No," it responded at once, nuzzling against his left cheek with the tip of its finely sculpted nose before offering him a dazzling smile and a coy upward glance through lowered ebony eyelashes. "Nothing else matters, when I'm with you." 

Husselbeck stifled a yawn: standard lover-robot patter, more romantic than the other variations of _Let's fuck_ he'd been bearing witness to all evening, but fundamentally the same game. He took a couple of long swallows of Insta-Caff, barely noticing the way the older man smiled more widely and covered the mecha's hand with his own, idly wondering if he should propose a money-bet to Morales based on which of them spotted the mythical drug dealers first. Consequently he missed the details of what happened next, a few sentences lightly traded — something about dinner and dancing, and whether the mecha had enjoyed itself or something equally ridiculous —  his attention only really returning when the man spoke more sharply, though still kindly: 

"What is it?" 

The mecha's gaze had shifted away from him, to its right and down. "I should be pleasing you, not the other way round," it said, and was that a trace of… wryness, in its accented tones? Surely not: lover-robots were renowned for many things, but a sense of irony was not foremost among them. 

"As well-programmed as you are in that respect, I need you for so much more than mere sensuality simulation." He curved his left forefinger under the mecha's chin and gently raised its face to his. "Or have I still failed to convince you of that fact?" 

It frowned fractionally. "No, but —" 

After a moment the man encouraged it: "Go on." 

"It's what I was built to do," the mecha responded, scanning his face with quick glances. "And if I cannot fulfill that purpose…" 

"For the moment," the man corrected it, and stroked its sculpted chin with his gloved thumb. "I should think you'd also have learned by now that you're a great deal more than your designed function." He was smiling again with such tenderness that Husselbeck felt an instant's cognitive dissonance: after an evening of cheap currency there it was again, the gleam of sovereign gold, but he'd never thought to see it bestowed on such an unworthy subject. "Even without your sensuality simulation subroutines in operation, the core of who you are remains — and that's of inestimable value, at least as far as I'm concerned." 

Husselbeck's mind leaped into high gear, processing the words two or three times. A lover-robot without a sexuality function? Well, that accounted for the what was missing in its body language, the lack of over-the-top seductiveness that normally infused every line of a sex-mecha's structure. He watched, genuinely curious now, as the mecha paused, gazing back at the man — its owner, surely — with cool green eyes that nevertheless seemed to shine with an answering brightness, and a hint of allure in spite of what was admittedly inoperative.  

"I knew my place in the world once, you know," it said. 

"But you weren't content with it," the orga responded with the air of someone who's come to a firm conclusion based on previous conversations. 

And then, even more startling, contradiction without hesitation or deference: "That's not entirely accurate. I did what I'd been made to do, and I was very good at it. My customers always went away satisfied." A pause and another sidelong glance away, followed by a slower progression of words: "But I also knew that there was something more, that I wasn't functioning entirely within my operating parameters. I could tell that other mecha didn't generate thoughts the way I did, or think beyond the task of the moment — not even Jane, who was my counterpart and my partner with so many clients." Its gaze returned to the face of its owner, intent and searching. "Nobody else in the world has ever looked beyond my form and function before — until you." 

In their shared gaze something dwelled, something impossible — but for an incredible instant, Husselbeck's heart leaped into his throat with the exhilaration of recognition. What trick of programming was this, that could simulate an emotional connection where no blood flowed and no heart beat? He'd seen sex-mecha weave their intricately designed spells of seduction countless times, but this robot's seduction function was disabled — and every instinct he possessed declared that this was no counterfeit of interest. There was something in this mecha's face that he had never seen from a mechanism before… 

… but whatever it was, the orga's expression was far clearer to be read, and was in perfect agreement. "You were very hard to miss, after what you'd done for David," he murmured, then bent his head to press a lingering kiss to the mecha's lips and to smile against them: "And I love you for it. Or do you remain unconvinced of that as well?" 

An even more surprising trace of that sweet smile again. "After all that you've done for _me_ , how could I possibly doubt you?" 

"But you do not love me in return." 

Their smiles faded to solemnity, a perfect mirroring. "I cannot love you, not as another orga would. You know that better than anyone. But I would rather be destroyed than be parted from you, and I can't imagine continuing to exist in a world without you in it." 

The orga studied that perfect mask, dropping his hand to the mecha's right shoulder, running it down that sleeve with a slow caress to enfold its bare fingers, which had been resting on its crossed right knee, in his own. "What if I were to tell you that I could give you that ability — the same gift I gave to David?" 

The mecha's full lips parted for a second or two before it spoke, a gesture as oddly eloquent of surprise as the slight tightening of its left hand on the orga's right thigh: "The Orison Project…" 

The older man nodded. "I could apply a firmware upgrade into your cube architecture, one that would give you a degree of enhanced cognition — at first. We'd have to leave it in place for several months, to ensure that it was stably integrated into your processing matrix, but once it was —" 

"You would imprint me," it said in a much lower register. "As David was imprinted on Monica Swinton." 

The set of names — _David_ , and _Monica Swinton_ — sparked an associative chain at the back of Husselbeck's mind: something about an experimental mecha child replacement and a lover-robot stealing a NJPD amphibicopter only days before he'd joined the… but no, this couldn't be _that_ LX9-277E-HT — could it? The one that had been bought by a senior Cybertronics research scientist who'd paid off everybody and their dog to ensure that it wasn't destroyed? The final tally of equipment replacement charges and bribes had cracked the high six figures, which had to be the highest price paid for any single mecha, anywhere.  

 _That_ was who Husselbeck was looking at? He tried to remember the name of the scientist and came up blank. 

At this moment the… Professor something?… was nodding fractionally. "It's what I've been working towards all this time." 

"But then you could never give me away to anybody else," the mecha said in a tone that might have been protest. "I'd be yours forever, or until you chose to have me destroyed." 

He held its gaze, speaking with quiet but absolute conviction: "I would rather take my own life than lose you, Joe. I almost lost you once, and it very nearly destroyed me. No — if I imprint you, it will be for the rest of my life." 

 _Joe._ That brought things into sharper focus: the lover-robot in the amphibicopter theft had been known as Gigolo Joe, the scientist's name was Professor Allen James Hobby, and the child mecha had been fixated on an organic woman it had been imprinted upon, with disastrous results. Husselbeck remembered the op ed articles now, hotly debating the pluses and minuses of creating robots capable of any degree of emotional attachment whatsoever. He'd thought the whole idea crushed by the wave of public outrage that had followed the leaking of the David project's twisted outcome — but obviously the project's creator wasn't ready to give up on it just yet.  

"And when you die," Gigolo Joe challenged, "what will become of me?"

"That's up to you," Professor Hobby replied with every appearance of forthright honesty. "I haven't finalized those protocols yet: you could choose have your cube automatically shut down in the event of my death, or to continue existing with a high degree of autonomy. The imprinting could even be designed to terminate at the end of my life, although that would take a little more time to design." 

Distress, surprisingly poignant, infused its handsome features. "But not my memories of you!" 

"No." He shook his head decisively. "Not unless you wanted them to. And Orison would involve so much more than just the imprinting protocol. It has the potential to take you to a whole new level of cognitive functioning, to open up a world of intuition and self-motivated reasoning that even you, as advanced as you are, could scarcely begin to imagine. It would bring you closer to the human condition than any mecha has ever come before…" 

"Except David." 

Hobby nodded. "Except David," he agreed. 

They looked at each other in silence, long enough that a drunken pair of human males, completely ignored by both of them, staggered into, across, and out of the camera's frame behind them before the mecha spoke again: "You're offering me the choice?" 

"Yes, because I know you're worthy of it." He smiled again, this time with a trace of sadness. "And because to love someone — to truly love them — means giving them the freedom to love you in return if they wish to, not forcing them to do so simply because it's what you want yourself." 

After a moment of apparent consideration, Joe nodded. "But you do want me to… don't you?" 

"I'm happier with you than I could have ever imagined being even three years ago," Hobby replied instantly. "Nothing will change that. I only want to give you a measure of that happiness in return. You're free to accept or refuse Orison — whichever choice you make, it won't affect my personal devotion to you, I promise you that." 

Another long pause. Husselbeck got the distinct impression that there was a whole two-way datastream being exchanged here that he simply wasn't able to decipher: he could only detect its outward manifestations, the orga's microexpressions as he awaited an answer, hints of sternness and sorrow and hope, and the mecha's unblinking intensity. "I'm already yours, Allen. I never want to belong to anyone else. When will the upgrade be ready?" 

Hobby's smile was slight, but to Husselbeck its joy lit up the darkness. "Within the next two months; likely by the end of the year." 

"Will it hurt?" 

"It will involve some cognitive adjustments. But no, I don't believe it will be painful." 

"It doesn't matter." It shifted closer to lay its head upon his grey-coated shoulder, its brilliant eyes half-hooded. "I would do anything for you — anything you asked of me, and anything you needed." 

Hobby's arm tightened around it with the ease of long intimate familiarity, sliding down to encircle its slim waist through its top coat of thin black cashmere. "Joe… this isn't a game. Applying the upgrade is not without its dangers. If it starts to destabilize your processing matrix, I may not see the signs or be able to uninstall it in time. You could be permanently damaged." 

"You're the most brilliant man in the world when it comes to my kind," Joe murmured, closing its green eyes fully. "I know you would never deliberately harm me. And, you've given me the choice. I understand what that means — and it's the most beautiful and tender thing any man has ever done for any mecha, anywhere. I only have one request." 

He kissed the curve of its synthetic ebony hair, smiling fondly again. "Anything you desire." 

"If my brain _is_ damaged by the Orison upgrade, beyond repair, I want you to destroy me. I couldn't bear the thought of you feeling responsible for keeping me if I were broken, and I never want to be parted from you while I'm still functional." 

Hobby closed his eyes briefly and an expression of pain, nearly grieving, fleetingly crossed his face — but he nodded without hesitation. "All right," he whispered, and rested his cheek atop the mecha's sleek head. "You have my word."  

"Thank you, Allen." It disengaged its right hand to raise it and open it against Hobby's chest, subtly caressing him through his overcoat. Hobby allowed it to do so, curving his now-free left hand around its upper right arm in a quick affectionate squeeze, then almost protectively around the side of its neck. "For all that's been, and for everything that's to come." 

There was that joyful smile again, barely a quirk of his thin lips, but absolutely radiant nonetheless. "Let's get back to the hotel. It's almost time for your inducer treatment." 

Ten seconds later they were gone, but Husselbeck found himself unable to stop thinking about them for the rest of the shift, and the pure strangeness of their relationship, and the half-grasped implications of what he'd overheard. The Shatter dealers never did make an appearance, and although he paid close attention to the Diamond Promenade with new interest for the following three nights of surveillance, neither did Professor Hobby (whose identity was confirmed by a quick Internet search when he got home) or Gigolo Joe. He couldn't do a PD database scan without sending up a bunch of red flags, but he strongly suspected that they'd come from Cybertronics Manhattan, where Hobby was currently listed as a high-ranking member of the Research Council, and had returned there after their little holiday in Rouge was done. 

If the top brass saw anything noteworthy in the recordings of their conversation on the Diamond Promenade, they certainly didn't see fit to tell a low-level mushroom like Officer John Husselbeck. 

It wouldn't be until twenty-two years later, when Senior Detective Husselbeck saw Joe's face again across a screaming crowd of panicked civilians in the Scarlet Plaza and instantly recognized the unique personality behind the mass-produced mask, that the pieces of the puzzle begun on that late autumn night would start to fall into place — and he would realize, instantly and horribly, that he was in the presence of an unknown quantity so unprecedented and so dangerous that this night of blood and fire might well turn out to be his last. 

THE END


End file.
